


Accommodations

by pulpriter



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Original content/ AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 08:25:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5241494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pulpriter/pseuds/pulpriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Evolutions and revolutions</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accommodations

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts occasioned by thinking about the implications of changing—or not changing.  
> I don’t own these characters, but I do love them.  
> I appreciate all comments, please review.

The Honourable Phryne Fisher was happily roaring down the road in her beloved Hispano-Suiza. It was not Detective Inspector Jack Robinson’s first choice to ride in her car, but sometimes it only made sense, and this was one of those times. He knew what to expect by now, so he had put his hat in his lap as soon as he got into the car, and managed not to be quite so obviously appalled by her wide turns, jackrabbit starts and fast straight-aways.  
Phryne slowed the merest bit as she approached a tight curve, then immediately came back up to speed. She grinned with joy as she whipped them both around. Surely, one of these days, Jack would have to admit that it was fun, wouldn’t he?

At the end of their drive, during which Jack was fairly certain they had never once slowed down to the speed limit, Phryne pulled the car to a stop with great panache. She looked over at Jack’s expression, and said, “Oh, fine.” She turned to him with her wrists held out as if for handcuffs. “Are you going to arrest me, Jack?”  
He looked down at her wrists, then back at her face. “It’s too late,” he said gloomily, opening the door as he jammed his hat back on his head. “I’m already an accessory to the crime.”

//

It was not an easy thing for Phryne to get Jack to join her at a nightclub, unless they were in the midst of an investigation; so tonight, she was making the most of having managed to drag him along. It helped that the band was less Lindy Hop and more swing. The music was slower, allowing them to dance in more traditional style.  
“This tune is _very_ romantic,” Phryne said with a sultry smile on her red lips.  
Jack’s eyes were deep, as was his voice, as he answered, “Yes. It is.” As their eyes held, he continued, “And I might add that you—” To her great disappointment, he was interrupted by the sound of an altercation in the next room. Jack stopped dancing, and his head snapped in the direction of the loud voices, which rose and fell but didn’t cease.  
Phryne felt the surge of adrenaline tensing his body. She had an unhappy feeling that she knew where this was going. “It’s all right. They’ll stop in a moment,” she said, trying to coax him back to dancing; but the voices continued. Jack seemed torn.  
Although she suspected it was useless, she said, “Jack. You’re not on duty. Surely there’s some other policeman who can take care of this.”  
He looked at her as if she were speaking another language. “But—not here, not now,” he said.  
No. No one else was here, now. There would be no stopping him.  
She sighed, and said, “Oh, go on, then. I’ll come with you.” They walked off the dance floor. Jack seemed to have forgotten that he still held Phryne’s hand, and Phryne did not draw attention to that oversight.

In the end, the mere appearance of a credential-wielding Detective Inspector at the scene of the dispute was enough for both of the aggrieved parties to settle down. It had only taken a few words. Phryne had to hide a smile at their response to Jack’s quiet authority; she had her own response to it, and couldn’t wait till they were alone so she could let her feelings be known.  
It was not to be, however: a constable had been called, and Jack stayed to make sure he had provided all the information that was needed, then accompanied the constable back to the station, after first making sure that Phryne would have a ride home with her cabbies.  
Bert had a notion to tease her about the night not ending as she’d hoped, but one look at her irritated face in the back seat dissuaded him.

//

One bright afternoon, Phryne strode out through the doors at City South. She was not pleased.  
She and Jack had gone round and round about a case that she had taken, one that was outside Jack’s jurisdiction. She was not happy with the officer in charge of the investigation and she wanted Jack to take over.  
It took some doing, but Jack finally admitted that he, too, had found the other officer’s work to be below standard—that is, below Jack’s standards; but he was adamant that it was not his place to undermine the other man’s case unless there were egregious discrepancies. 

Phryne argued with him, sometimes eloquently, sometimes petulantly. Her usual wiles didn’t work when arguing with Jack. He never would just let her win in the way that many other men had. He would talk it through with her, he would play fair, he would give her her say (and even listen to it). But his argument was that policies were written for a reason: he knew what was expected of him and accepted it, even if he didn’t necessarily agree. She didn’t convince him, no matter what tricks she pulled out—and she had pulled out every one she could think of. So she left.  
Sometimes there was just no talking to him. 

//

One cold and drizzly day, Phryne bounced into the Detective Inspector’s office. “Hallo, Jack!”  
The man in question looked up from his paperwork with pleasure. “Miss Fisher! To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”  
She shrugged and came around to lean against the corner of his desk. “I’m bored. It’s a terrible, dreary day. The monotony is driving me wild.”  
“It has been quiet here, too,” Jack allowed, and gestured to the deskful of papers. “You’re welcome to help me finish these reports.”  
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Phryne scoffed. “I have a better idea. Play hooky with me!”  
“Hooky,” he said, shaking his head. “Phryne…”  
“Oh, come on, Jack. You’re bored, too. Don’t try to tell me you aren’t.”  
“I may be, but that doesn’t mean I can get up and walk out.”  
Phryne rolled her eyes. “Your shift is almost over. Only an hour to go, isn’t there? Who would know the difference?” As soon as she said it, she knew what his answer was bound to be.  
He didn’t say it, but he did say, “You realize I don’t sit behind this desk for the sheer joy of it, don’t you?”  
She had to try one more time. “If we left, anyone would think we were going out to investigate something. In fact,” she said, leaning down to him, “I’m sure I can think of something I need to investigate.”  
His smiles were rare, but she was seeing more and more of them. This one shone all the way through to those lapis-colored eyes. “Can you?”  
A lesser man would have given in by now, she thought. Still, she couldn’t resist this game. “I can.”  
Jack stood up, and now she had to look up at him. “It may surprise you to hear that I can, too. But,” he walked to the door, smile still in place, “I think we’ll have to investigate it later. Over dinner, perhaps?”  
“Oh, all right,” she said, giving in gracefully. “I’m sure the dreary weather will have Mr. Butler in the kitchen working on a masterpiece. Come and join me.”  
She moved past him through the door, squeezing as close as she possibly could. She stopped midway through, and looked teasingly up at him. “When your shift is over, of course,” she added.  
“Of course.” 

//

Phryne was rearranging the furniture in her boudoir. A storage chest was blocking her from moving things into the pattern she had chosen. Phryne gave a great heave, and pulled the chest away from the wall. When it moved, something fell out from behind. Phryne reached back, and lifted the object up.  
She held it up to the light: a filthy, burnt stocking. It took a few moments to remember what it was, and how it had wound up behind the chest. She sat down on the bed as realization washed over her.  
She remembered well the day Jack had brought it back to her. He had been angry, but worse than that, he had not at that point seen any future for the two of them. “I am who I am, Jack. I can’t give that up,” she had said to him. He had told her that he would never ask her to change—but then he had walked out.  
Phryne could still feel the pain of that day. She had sat, stunned, in her chair, for the longest time; then she had stormed up to her room and pitched that stocking with utter ferocity. She had never thought to wonder where it went.

Now Jack was still very much a part of her life, after even more trials and separations. What’s more, he never had asked her to change, even to this day. She laughed to herself. It was no surprise that he was a man of his word.  
“He is who he is, as well,” she thought, “and I would never ask him to change, or be any different than he is.” 

As soon as she thought it, she felt uneasy. She curled her feet underneath her on the bed. Something didn’t sit right with her.  
“I wouldn’t ask Jack to change,” she assured herself. “Well, except sometimes when he is wrong about things. Like the time when our evening was spoiled, because he went to break up a fight. Or when he criticizes my driving. Breaking speed limits shouldn’t be considered to be breaking the law! I never have an accident, after all. He really could relax a little: rules, rules, always following the rules. Leaving work early, for instance, wouldn’t have hurt a thing …”  
She stopped. She stood up and walked to the window, and looked out for a very long time. 

Much later, Phryne had just completed her toilette when Mr. Butler called through the door, “Inspector Robinson is here.”  
She made sure the lipstick was just right on her smiling lips. She made her way quickly down the stairs, where she saw Jack waiting. His eyes were alight as he looked up at her.  
“Did you finish your paperwork, then?” she asked.  
He shook his head. “If I live to be one hundred, I’ll never finish all the paperwork. They’ll find my body, under all the papers…”  
“What a dreadful thought!” said Phryne, taking his arm and leading him to the parlour. She poured each of them a drink. “It’s far more likely, isn’t it, that I’ll drag you into some ridiculous situation, and we’ll both be put out of our misery at once!”  
“Oh, no. That’s no good.” Acting horrified, he took the drink she handed him. “A world without Phryne Fisher? As I’ve mentioned before, what kind of world would that be?” His smile was light, but she was suddenly pensive.  
She swallowed hard. “Almost as bad as a world without Jack Robinson.”  
He started. “Phryne?” He waited silently for her explanation—a habit which worked equally well with suspects and lady detectives.  
She wasn’t sure she could explain, but she would try. “Jack—don’t ever change.”  
He could tell something was up, but couldn’t for the life of him guess what it was. “Never change? I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”  
“Isn’t it?”  
“Surely there’s always room to learn, or even improve.”  
She wasn’t sure. “Perhaps…”  
Jack went on, “Change can’t be avoided. Things happen. People change. Life changes you.”  
She answered resolutely, “I want to be the person I choose to be, not someone who lets herself be swept away by life.”  
It was not hard to imagine what events had shaped their thinking. Each had been through good times and bad, through times of great promise and of promises broken.  
“You _are_ the person you choose to be. You choose it minute by minute, every day.” He paused. “What brought all this on?”  
“A stocking. And a memory.”  
He waited, but this time to no avail. “That’s all the answer I’m going to get, isn’t it?” he asked.  
“For now.” She tapped her glass to his, and they drank; then she gave him a pert look. “You may be right that change is inevitable, but don’t go changing too much. I’m still not sure I like the idea.” She smiled a special smile, one that only he was privileged to see. “But I’ll try to stay in step all the same.”


End file.
